Nox
by Somigliana
Summary: Nox: Antidote to the disease that almost annihilated humankind—magic.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: The characters in the following story belong to JK Rowling. I am not making any money from the publishing or writing of this story._

_Author's Notes:_  
The basic premise for this story was inspired by one of my favourite movies, _Equilibrium_. As such, _Nox_ is (rather vastly) AU. It does not matter if you've not seen the movie; this fic stands alone as a story.  
Thank you to Annie Talbot for holding my hand and telling me to 'keep on writing'.  
Each dose of _Nox_ will be metered out in 1000 word increments, by order of the Ministry of Justice.

* * *

"Well, what have we got?"

The Beater turns to face Snape and immediately stands up a little straighter, respect stiffening his spine. The joints of his anti-magic assault carapace click as he salutes smartly. "Chaser Snape, sir. We tracked down a group of six or seven Order members and managed to get a Hex around this house and trap them, sir, before they could Apparate away. As far as we could see, they're only wanded, sir."

Snape's eyes flick to the derelict house and the wire-thin cable that encircles the property like a noose. "Hex holding steady?"

The Beater tilts a small readout screen towards Snape. "As a heartbeat, sir."

"Keep it that way while we're in there." Snape glances over his shoulder as he unholsters his semi-automatic pistol. "Coming?"

Snape's partner, Chaser Regulus Black, is leaning against the car, surveying the scene with narrowed eyes. "You can handle seven in your sleep." He gestures towards the neighbouring houses that have drooped miserably on their foundations. "I'll circle around the perimeter; see if this lot missed anything."

Snape nods, checks the pistol's magazine with expert grace, then closes his eyes for a moment. He can hear the whining buzz of the Hex; the _click-click_ of the Beaters as they shift nervously at the perimeter; the urgent, hushed whispers of the desperate.

Snape's eyes snap open.

"Break down the door," he tells the Beaters.

*

"I will leave you to deal with these magic offenders," Snape says to the lead Beater, staring pitilessly down the line of handcuffed Order members. "I need to find where they have hidden their wands."

One of the wizards—a scruffy, hollow-eyed youth with blood oozing from his nose—spits a hack of saliva onto the steel-capped boot of the Beater. In a blink, he's pinned to the wall by the barrel of an assault rifle.

"Go ahead, shoot me, then!" He leans forward into the barrel. "We all know we're headed for a firing squad, anyway."

One of the women whimpers, "Seamus, no."

Seamus' bloodied lips curl into a snarl. "You're no death eaters—you fucking Chasers and your Beater squads, you aren't _saving humanity_; you bring death on…"

Snape puts a hand on the barrel of the rifle when he sees the Beater tensing up, preparing to shoot. "No," he orders. "I want this one interrogated, thoroughly. If he gives you any trouble, shoot his girlfriend." He tips his head towards the woman.

"Yes, sir."

As the Beaters lead the Order members out of the door, Seamus lunges forward towards Snape, struggling hard against the two Beaters who are restraining him. He manages to pry one arm loose and strike Snape square on the jaw before they get him under control again. "Fuck you, Chaser. I'll never give Dumbledore up, never!"

Snape calmly pulls his pistol out and shoots the woman—a neat double tap dead-centre on her forehead. She drops like a stone.

And then Snape stands, statue-still, while the Beaters drag the Order members out of the house, their screams echoing across the gloom of the empty neighbourhood.

*

Snape is running his long, spidery fingers across the faded wallpaper when Chaser Black enters the room and carefully steps around the pool of blood that is seeping into the dusty floorboards.

"Find anything?" Black asks.

"Not yet."

While Snape continues to trace a path around the circumference of the room, Black ransacks the chest of drawers in the corner.

"Too obvious," Snape murmurs to himself. When his fingertips start to tingle strangely, like he's been sitting on them for hours, Snape stops. "Behind the wall," he says to the Beater at the door.

Snape and Black stand shoulder-to-shoulder as the Beaters tear the wall down, revealing a narrow, hidden room.

Black shakes his head. "I don't know how you do it, Severus."

Snape shrugs. "The dimensions of the room were… off."

"Hmm." Black steps into the room. "Let's see what we've got…"

*

As well as a fistful of wands, they find a trunk overflowing with spell books and magical gadgets. Snape can identify crystal balls and pewter cauldrons, but some of the silver, spidery instruments are a mystery to him, and the little ball with shimmering wings is absolutely bizarre.

He places the ball back into its box. "Well, I suppose the Keepers will know what to do with it." Until they decide to destroy it or log it into the Hall of Evidence, though, Snape will ensure the magical artefacts stay under the Hex, just in case one of the wizards has booby-trapped something.

Snape turns around and scowls at his partner. "What are you doing?" he asks Black.

Chaser Black continues to stick the wands into the pockets of his long, black Chaser's tunic. "I think it's probably safer to take this many wands directly to the Hall of Evidence and log them with the Head Keeper."

Snape concedes that it's entirely possible—it's happened too many times before, yes—that one of their Beaters or Keepers has stopped taking Nox and might be tempted to return the wands to the Order. But Snape smirks anyway. "Paranoid."

Chaser Black grins. "Almost as paranoid as you, then."

*

On the return trip to the city, Black sighs and turns from the window, where the gutted remains of London speed past, ever bleak and grey. "It's so damn grim out of the city. When will the war finally be over, do you think?"

"When every last Order member is either dead or taking Nox." Snape checks his watch and extracts a little black tablet from a silver pillbox. It's glossy, shines like a speck of obsidian in his palm. He swallows it, feels a familiar weight unfurl in his veins.

"It's worth it." The way Black says it, it sounds almost like a question, curling up at the end.

Snape turns to his partner, eyes narrowed. "What?"

Black swallows his own dose of Nox and nods, reiterating firmly, "It's worth it."


	2. Chapter 2

The air itself feels lighter within the Hex, which guards the high walls of Salazar City.

Snape watches the cityscape and its quietly industrious citizens slide past as he drives to the Ministry buildings at Salazar's heart. Many years ago, before the Plague scoured the world, Lord Voldemort's palace was home to a Queen.

Snape cannot imagine a world that has enough people in it to bow to a throne.

Everywhere Voldemort's hologram commends the shreds of humanity—they have survived, despite themselves; Nox has given them life.

There is a message waiting for him on his desk at the Ministry of Justice. He turns to Chaser Black. "Take point on the interrogation, would you? I've got to go up and see Minister Malfoy."

Black raises his eyebrows and exaggerates an impressed face. "What does Voldemort's Voice want with you, then?"

Snape straightens the high collar of his tunic. "I would not claim to know our Lord's mind."

"A Sickle," Black slides a silver coin onto Snape's desk, "that he will restate our Lord's displeasure that the Order has not yet been contained."

Snape grimaces. "You are an absolute idiot sometimes, Black." But he places another Sickle on the desk and turns towards the stairs.

* * *

Minister Malfoy's office is all steel and glass—grey and cold like his eyes. Salazar stretches behind him through a wall-to-ceiling window, glittering in the afternoon sun like a jewel.

"Chaser Snape."

Snape stands at attention before Malfoy's desk. There is no spare chair in the office—for the sake of atmosphere rather than aesthetics, Snape is convinced. "Sir."

"Salazar's preeminent Chaser... our veritable paladin of Justice." Like ink in water, the high praise is stained with subtle irony. "Tell me... to what do you attribute your success, Severus?"

"Training, research, experience." Snape sees Malfoy's lips twist with impatience and adds, "And perhaps heightened perception." His fingertips itch.

"Perception," Malfoy drawls. "And yet, you have not always been this uncannily perceptive..."

Snape feels something icy twist in his chest.

Malfoy stares at Snape so hard it feels that he might suffocate under the weight of it. And then he smiles ironically, smoothes an elegant hand over his neat, white-blond hair. "It is rumoured her son is to replace Dumbledore one day, you know."

Snape resists curling his fingers into tight fists. "I have heard it spoken, yes, sir."

Malfoy leans forward—all idle amusement leached from his face. "Our Lord wants the heart of the Order, Snape. Are you the Chaser who will deliver it?"

Snape's jaw tightens, and he nods. "I am, sir."

* * *

Chaser Snape stands before neat rows of small, upturned faces—all serious and silent like a secret. Snape clasps his hands behind his back, stares at one of the boys until he gazes down at his hands, intimidated.

"Each of you was tested rigorously, found worthy, chosen. One day, you will be a Chaser—efficient and graceful hunter of the Order; mentor to the next generation of Chasers; Salazar's pride."

Snape's lips twist into an acid smirk. "If you are not a complete dunderhead and get dropped back to Beater School, that is."

Some of the children shift in their chairs; doubt flutters in their eyes. One or two smile confidently; Snape spears them with his black gaze until they wither. "Make no mistake—by the time you've reached puberty, two thirds of you will no longer be here."

Movement at the door halts his lecture. Annoyance shifts to anticipation when Chaser Black beckons urgently.

"Start reading chapter one," he instructs. "If you cannot repeat Voldemort's Creed, word for word, by the time I return, then woe betide you."

* * *

"You never mentioned that you'd be teaching newbie history this year, Severus."

"If you dragged me out of my class to gloat over Academy assignments, Regulus, I _will_ hurt you. However, I should mention that this class is but twice a week. How often is that Hex Placement class you're teaching again?"

Black snarls half-heartedly, gestures Snape into an empty classroom and gets straight to the point. "We just lost Seamus Finnegan."

Snape's nostrils flare, but he reigns in any other raging response until he learns more. If his prime interrogant was killed by a trigger-happy Beater… if they did not search him thoroughly enough…

"How?"

Black sighs and shrugs. "The minute we started pressing him for information about the Order, his eyes rolled back and he hit the deck, stone dead. Poison, the doctor says."

Snape closes his eyes, prays for calm. He runs his tongue over his teeth… breathes… swallows. "Find out how he self-administered the poison, will you?"

"Should we get on with questioning the others from the group?" Black asks.

Snape opens his eyes, sighs. "May as well. Tomorrow."

He watches the door close behind Black, listens to the brisk, precise sound of his fading footsteps, and then he slams his fist down on a desk hard enough for pain to thunder up through his arm, take his breath away.

* * *

_They lie entwined, hearts slowing, skin cooling. Lily walks her fingers over his ribs, smiles into his neck. _

_Many silent moments later, she asks, "Do you remember what it was like, Severus?" _

_He winds his fingers through her flame-bright hair, shifts lazily. "Hmmm? What are you talking about?" _

_"Before. When we were little children in Manchester and dreaming about going to Hogwarts. Do you remember how it was before the Plague?" _

_His fingers still, his body stiffens. "No. No, I do not remember." _

_She sighs softly, nuzzles his jaw with soft lips. "Neither do I," she says. "Neither do I." _

_"It makes not a whit of difference, now, anyway," he murmurs, relaxing. _

_"Mmm," she agrees, turning her face into his shoulder and kissing the tender skin under his collarbone, "I know." _

Snape is out of bed, his back pressed tight to the wall and his pistol levelled steady at the morning light, before the oily tendrils of the dream have slithered away.

His hand shakes violently, and his pulse thunders at this throat, as he lifts his morning dose of Nox to his lips.


	3. Chapter 3

"Working late again?" asks Chaser Black. He thumps his briefcase onto Chaser Snape's desk and winds a scarf around his neck.

Snape glances up from his computer screen. "I want to review today's interrogations once more before I sign the Execution Orders."

Black snorts. "And they all attribute your success to natural talent—I shall have to inform them that it is really because you do not sleep."

"Oh, sod off home," Snape says mildly, although a faint smile tugs at his lips.

Black grins at him. "Goodnight, Severus."

Snape lifts a hand in greeting, already focussed on his work again.

It is hours dark, and any noise in the Ministry of Justice has long leached away with the setting sun—Snape hears Black whistling all the way to the door.

* * *

Snape pinches the bridge of his nose. "Nothing," he mutters as he breathes out a yawn.

The Order members he interrogated today know nothing of strategic importance. And their team-leader, Finnegan, is dead.

Because none of the magic offenders expressed a flicker of an interest in becoming law-abiding, Nox-dosed citizens of Salazar—"Fuck you, Chaser, I'd rather die!" To which Snape replied, "Of _that_ you can be sure," in a steel-grey tone—Snape signs their Execution Orders.

He taps his pen against his desk, scowling. Again, a raid has yielded nothing but bodies and black frustration.

He calls up the vid of the Finnegan interrogation.

_If you don't tell me where Dumbledore and Potter are, Finnegan, you're going to die," Chaser Black says in a friendly manner. His expression grows bored as he inspects his fingernails. _

_"I'll die for the cause, then." Finnegan leans forward across the steel table, his eyes wide and wild, and grabs Black's wrist. "It's worth it." _

_And then Finnegan's eyes roll back and he pitches forward, dead. _

Snape frowns, rewinds the video a little.

_Finnegan leans forward across the steel table, his eyes wide and wild, and grabs Black's wrist. "It's worth it." _

The plastic pen shatters, bleeds ink onto his paperwork.

* * *

Snape's breath lingers on the death-cold air.

He stares at the tiny red pinprick at the base of Finnegan's thumb. Betrayal seethes through his teeth; grim resolve deadens his eyes.

The magnifying glass slides from his nerveless fingers, shatters against the concrete cold floor. Glass shards skitter under neighbouring morgue tables, where white-shrouded bodies await incineration—the traitor's pyre.

* * *

_"No, Chaser Snape, sir, Chaser Black didn't log any wands into the Hall of Evidence yesterday." "No, sir, he didn't send any of the apprentice Chasers to do it for him; there have been no wands logged in since the raid three weeks ago." "Yes, sir, I'm sure that the records are up to date and accurate, sir."_

The last ribbons of doubt now excised with scalpel-sharp pain, Snape strides towards a guard station set into Salazar's wall. A young Chaser with night-dark skin shadows him closely, repressed enthusiasm leaking into his smug smile, his jaunty step.

"Chaser Snape, sir. I just want to say what a privilege it is to be assigned to—"

Snape yanks the guard station door open, tosses a dark glare over his shoulder. "Seen and not heard, Zabini. Was that not my stipulation?"

Apprentice Chaser Zabini sketches a smart salute. "Yes, Chaser Snape, sir."

Snape's eyes narrow for a heartbeat, scanning for residual irony. "Wait here while I get the satellite track on his vehicle."

* * *

"Do you want me to put the Hex up?" Zabini asks as they drive through the deserted streets beyond Salazar's wall.

Snape taps his long fingers against the steering wheel, touches his tongue to his teeth. "No—infrared scans indicate he is alone." He switches off his headlights as he turns onto the target street. "It is my hope that he will come in quietly."

Zabini's huff of disbelief strangles through his nose as a soft snort.

"Stay in the car," Snape orders.

* * *

"I'm surprised you didn't figure it out sooner."

Candles hover on the air above Chaser Black. Honeyed light flicker-slides across the age-yellowed parchment pages of the book he is reading. A wand rests on the table next to the spell book.

"Charms," Black caresses the intricately inked text, "are so… charming, you know." He gazes up at the candles; light flickers across his eyes, like his soul is on fire.

Snape doesn't lower his pistol. "Have you gone mad?"

Blacks lips quirk downwards. "Ah, no, you don't know." He closes his eyes and smiles. "The tingle of magic shimmering through your veins; the shift of the world as it sets into its proper place…"

"Regulus—"

"How can you ignore it, Severus? Magic lives in your blood; it breeds in your very bones—"

"Regulus. You have got to come back to Salazar, now. I'll do what I can to ensure that they go easy on you."

Black's smile fades. "We both know—that is a lie."

Snape remains silent.

"I can't go back, Severus—I cannot Nox away my very soul."

Snape thinks of the magical Plague that razed the entire planet, unravelling the very chromosomes of those who did not carry the magical gene. He shakes his head. "Nox prevents the unforgivable atrocities that magic tempts; Nox is saving humanity."

Black raises his eyebrows. "Is _that_ what we do, Severus? _Save_ lives?"

Snape ignores the discomfort that aches under his heart. "The price of magic—"

Black's fingers inch towards the wand, spiderlike across the page. "I'll pay it gladly," he whispers.

Snape's grip on his pistol tightens. "Don't."

Black's eyes shift back to the magic book—he smiles again—and his fingertips touch the wand.

Snape pulls the trigger.

The candles fall like rain from the air. Wax and blood snake across the table, drip onto the dusty floor.

Snape turns to see Zabini standing at the door, his eyes glittering with dark excitement, his grin white and wide. "I could only aspire to be as steadfast as you are one day, Chaser Snape."

Snape shoulders past him, into the dark.


	4. Chapter 4

_The wind plucks his dark hair from its severe neatness and whips it into a dark nimbus around his head. _

_His eyes sting. _

_"Ah, there you are, Severus." Regulus watches over Salazar with him for a moment, the hem of his tunic flaring in a taut ripple. He shivers. "Now I remember why I never come up here. You aren't going to jump, are you?" _

_His head aches. _

_Regulus cups his hand around a cigarette to light it. "Word just came in—she probably wasn't alone. Seeker Potter didn't check in on schedule; didn't ever arrive for his envoy stop in Salem." _

_His heart burns. _

_Regulus squeezes his shoulder. "I am sorry, my friend."_

Snape sneers at himself around his toothbrush—vivid dreams have bruised deep shadows beneath his eyes. He spits into the sink and turns away from the mirror without looking at himself again.

* * *

Snape thinks, given the circumstances, Malfoy is impressively restrained: only his white knuckles tight around his ornate cane belie the calm.

Unless his cane is a sword-stick and he is intending to execute Snape, after all.

"Perhaps it is that you trust too keenly, Chaser Snape, that you do not _perceive_ treachery when it is occurring right under your nose." Malfoy eyes Snape's large nose but refrains from petty mockery.

"I value loyalty, sir."

Malfoy's lips quirk upwards in a non-smile. "As does Our Lord, Chaser Snape." Malfoy sets his cane on his desk, lifts his chin, taps his fingers in an idle fan. "Perhaps the singular positive outcome of this fiasco is that your recent failures appear to have interference, not incompetence, at their root."

Snape's jaw tightens. "Once the investigation is complete, we should know how long—"

Malfoy raises his hand, indicating that the details bother him little. "Young Zabini should serve you well. He is a particular friend of my son, Draco."

A subtle threat lingers, but all Snape can think of is the unsettling gleam in Zabini's eyes. "Yes, sir."

* * *

Snape undoes the top button of his tunic as he rides the elevator down to the Chasers' level, and then he swallows an extra dose of Nox. His skin feels like it is stretched too tightly across his bones; his blood surges heavily in his veins.

He stares at the ink-stained Execution Orders strewn across his desk for several moments—_"Is _that_ what we do, Severus? _Save_ lives?"_—before he places his palm on the top one and pulls the paper into his fist.

"Oh—ugh—you're going to have to redo all that paperwork."

Snape doesn't look up at Zabini. "All realisations have a price, I suppose." He drops the paper ball into his rubbish bin.

"Heh." Zabini leans against Snape's desk. "Word just came in on suspicious loitering activity from the south gate guards—they tracked the perp to her apartment—a team of Beaters have it under surveillance for us." Zabini taps a thin folder against his knee. "I've pulled her file for you to read on the way…"

Snape grimaces and pulls a spare magazine from his top drawer. "It had better not be another false alarm."

* * *

She smiles warily at them when she opens her front door—this in itself is not unusual; Chasers unnerve even the devoutly loyal.

"Good morning, Miss Granger," Snape says. "I am Chaser Snape, and this is Chaser Zabini. May we come in?"

It is not a question.

"Yes, yes, of course," she says, gesturing them inside. "Can I offer you a seat, coffee, tea?" She smiles, but it does not light in her dark brown eyes.

"Thank you, no," Snape says. He does a quick scan of her apartment: neat and dull in its normalcy.

To his credit, Zabini remains on station at her front door, spine stiff, eyes attentive.

"Where do you work, Miss Granger?" He knows this answer already, but Snape likes to establish an easy question-answer rhythm, at first.

She runs a hand through her curly brown hair. "I'm a dentist. I work at the west medical centre."

"And you have been a citizen of Salazar for how long?" Snape begins to amble around her living room, touching a wall here, a glass vase there.

"Just over a month, now."

He can feel her watching his circuit, hides a smirk.

"And before that?"

"Ravenclaw."

"Ah, Scotland, how lovely." He smiles at her—it's the mirthless smile of a shark, circling. "Scenic."

"Yes, it was." For a moment, she looks almost unbearably sad, and then she erases the fleeting emotion when she smiles again, just a little too brightly. "But then the Seekers advertised my current post, and I'd never seen the capital before, and, well, here I am."

He tilts his head to examine the books on her bookshelf. "Hmm." His long fingers ripple across their spines. Organic Chemistry and cheap fiction, mostly.

"Tell me, Miss Granger—why were you not at work today—why were you seen loitering near the south gate?"

She lifts her chin, crosses her arms. "It's my day off. I was enjoying the view."

Snape sighs and traces the frame of a large mirror. "_Really_?" He shifts slightly, intending to watch her reflection.

Reality stretches, distorts, shatters.

The mirror does not reflect the room.

Snape watches a long-haired version of _himself_ weaving glittering streams of magic with a wand. He stands, transfixed—until Granger launches herself at his back, pummelling him, pulling his hair, screeching obscenities in his ear.

Snape quickly has her hands bound tightly behind her back. She struggles against him ineffectively. "Let me _go_, you bastard!"

Everywhere his hands touch her skin, it tingles, itches, burns.

"Put your gun away, for Gods' sake, man," Snape snaps at Zabini, who has his pistol pressed to the witch's temple, his long, white teeth bared in a snarl.

_"Is _that_ what we do, Severus? _Save_ lives?"_

"I want this one alive for interrogation."

He allows the Beaters to take her into custody, and he stares at the mirror in mystified horror—it is quite obviously magical—it is functioning within the Hex.


	5. Chapter 5

"Tell me, Miss Granger, where did you get the mirror?"

She stares at her hands, silent and stubborn as stone.

"Why did you move to Salazar?"

More silence.

"Who were you waiting for at the south gate?"

He can scarcely hear her draw breath.

Snape spins his pen between his fingers. "If you do not freely tell me what I wish to know, we have other ways to extract the truth from you."

A strange smile twists Granger's lips. "Veritaserum doesn't work on memories that aren't there."

It does work on false memories, though. Snape sometimes thinks that trapping a magician is like trying to catch smoke in his hand.

"And it's a _magic_ potion, you know, not some wonder drug your chemists cooked up. Doesn't that tell you something about the concrete dictatorship you serve—that they pick and chose the magic they wield?"

Snape ignores her lie—many terms were adapted from the old times on nostalgic whim.

"And while you're at it, why don't you ask them who _really_ crafted the Plague."

He sighs. "Who are your friends, Granger?"

The echo of her bitter laugh is hollow in the windowless interrogation room. "Do you even know what that word means, Chaser? I doubt you have a single friend."

His pen stills.

_Regulus squeezes his shoulder. "I am sorry, my friend."_

With dangerous grace (he breathes carefully through the icy dismay), he slides his fingers down his trice-asked list of questions.

"Your blood tests show no trace of Nox at all. How long have you been breaking the law?"

Granger lifts her chin belligerently. "What law? Nature dictates that we _are_ magicians, Chaser. Every cell in my body vibrates with its energy. I can assure you—taking Nox breaks greater laws than those imposed by _your Lord_."

The strength of her conviction sends stray tendrils of magic tickling across his skin. Snape briefly imagines breaking protocol and stuffing a fistful of Nox down her throat.

"Voldemort's laws saved humanity from tearing itself apart. And we have survived, despite ourselves. We have our laws, and so we _live_."

She leans across the table, grabs his hand. Where she touches him, it burns. "But what do you live for?"

He jerks his hand from her grasp.

"I live for—" He frowns at the words that will not form on his tongue. "I am a Chaser. I serve Lord Voldemort. I safeguard humanity."

Granger shakes her head. "You live so that you can continue to live. What's the point of that?"

"And what is the point of your existence? Breaking as many laws as you can manage?" he challenges.

"Magic," she breathes. And then she smiles, and it lights warmth in her eyes. "You have magic in your blood, and yet you have never known its beauty." The corners of her mouth turn downward. "I feel sorry for you, Chaser. Without magic, you're just marking time with each breath. Tick-tock. Tick-tock."

Snape glances pointedly at his watch. "Yes. Tick-tock," he mocks. He does not need to state explicitly that _she_ does not have much time left. "Given that you refuse to willingly submit truth, you will now be processed through to Interrogation where it shall be _extracted_ from you."

"You may as well take out your gun and shoot me, now, Chaser—they won't get anything from me."

He rises smoothly and motions to the Beater standing guard outside the door that he is.

"What did you see in the mirror, Chaser?" she calls after him. "What did you see?"

* * *

"So… did you get her to crack yet, sir?"

Snape almost jumps. At least Regulus made noise on approach; Zabini moves like a cat. "Not yet."

"Do you want me to try?" Sadistic enthusiasm infuses his new partner's voice.

Snape smiles thinly. "What I want _you_ to do is investigate how the hell she got her job and all of her Salazar permits without a Seeker."

To Snape, the answer is obvious: another rogue in the Ministry of Justice. He wants to know _who_.

Confusion occludes Zabini's handsome face. "I thought she had a Seeker…"

Snape's smile is humourless. "Ah. That is one of the questions she did deign to answer earlier—she even gave me the name of her Seeker."

Zabini raises his eyebrows. "Uh-huh?"

"Seeker Fuckoffanddie."

* * *

"It is your opinion, then, that the city Hex is functioning normally?" Snape coughs, clearing the disbelief that lingers in his throat.

"Oh-ho, yes, yes, indeed." Head Keeper Slughorn bounces on the balls of his feet; his overlarge belly strains at the brass buttons of his tunic. "Right as rain. Good as—"

"And _yet_…" Snape gestures at the mirror. He is standing out of range of its reflection as if it is a poisonous snake that might strike at any moment.

"Well, yes, we see this from time to time—nothing to be alarmed about, I assure you."

Snape refrains from pulling out his pistol as persuasion to sense. "The Hex is supposed to dampen and filter all magic, is it not?"

"Eh... mostly. The Hex filters wand magic, certainly, and deactivates magic shields and protections, yes." Slughorn shrugs. "But there is some magic so ingrained and pervasive, it cannot be scoured away."

_"Magic lives in your blood; it breeds in your very bones—"_

"And mirrors tend to cling to their magic." Slughorn steps closer to the mirror and taps a fingernail against it, like a curious bird. "What did you see, then, young Chaser? For academic reference. I'll have to document what this one does."

"I—my mirror self—was doing magic with a wand." The words taste like heresy.

"Really?" Slughorn taps the mirror again. "The blasted thing just makes me look fatter."

* * *

_"What did you see in the mirror, Chaser?"_

Snape stands bare-chested in his bathroom, long fingers splayed on the cool, marble counter. He taps a finger next to the untouched silver pillbox.

"Which mirror?" he murmurs.

Because the man in his mirror this morning hadn't looked entirely like him, either.

Discomforted, Snape turns away from the mirror and goes to bed.


	6. Chapter 6

"_James Potter. Lily Potter. The Ministry of Justice has observed evidence and found you guilty of countless violations of law, including magical crimes against humanity—punishable with death by firing squad." The Beater's voice is ash-bored, dry as dust. _

_The lead Chaser on the case, it is Snape's duty and 'privilege' to witness the execution of justice. He stands behind the Beaters and stares straight ahead—his face, his heart, his mind… blank._

_At the periphery of his vision, the Beater squad shifts in anticipation. _Click-click.

_"Severus," Lily calls. _

_He clenches his teeth together. _

_"Ready." _

_The Beaters raise their rifles in one smooth, coordinated motion. _Click.

_"Severus!" she screams. "Listen to me, please! He can hear her pulling against the chains that hold her fast to the wall. "All of this—it's all a lie—"_

_"Aim."_

_Another _click_-shift, and Snape's first love (his only love) is sighted through a dozen scopes._

_"Don't be blind, Severus! Look at me!"_

_"Fire."_

Snape wakes on the bloody edge of a scream with tongues of flame licking his skin. He vaults from the burning bed, swiftly folds the sheets in on themselves to smother the fire. Sweat-slicked and panting, he stares at his tingling hands.

A flicker of unnatural flame dances along his palm.

Something enormous and foreign flexes in his muscles, twitches along his nerves.

Lily's voice tendrils from his dream. _"All of this—it's all a lie—"_

Visceral panic spirals—he careens off the jamb of the bathroom door, fumbles the pillbox open, curses savagely as a hail of Nox bounces across the tiled floor.

When he lifts a fistful of tablets to his lips, he catches sight of himself in the mirror—eyes ablaze with new, unearthly light. His chest heaves. His heart pounds. Something exquisite flutters and resonates within every cell of his body.

_Magic so ingrained and pervasive, it cannot be scoured away._

If it feels like this within the Hex… on one missed dose…

It is little wonder the war bleeds on.

Snape has dedicated most of his life to eradicating this luminous treason—cutting down self-serving indulgence for the greater good of humanity—Chasing harmony.

Grimly, he swallows a triple dose of Nox. He closes his eyes, waits for the familiar infusion of heavy calm.

* * *

Snape has progressed through his morning schedule with leaden precision. In the predawn panic, he bolted a too large dose of Nox; it feels like it coagulated in his veins, stilting his perception, slowing his reaction time.

Zabini raises his arms above his head and tilts back his head, emitting a loud victory whoop. Then he grins over Snape. "I do believe that's the first time you've been taken down in… years, is it? Is the legend getting old, then, Chaser Snape?"

Snape swipes a sweaty strand of hair from his eyes. His heartbeat lurches sluggishly beneath his jaw.

When Zabini does not extend a winner's hand, Snape pushes up off the floor and stands smoothly enough—but he feels off-balance, like gravity has shifted imperceptibly.

"Not at all," he replies steadily. "How else will an apprentice come to learn that defeat—_and victory_—should be taken with quiet control and disciplined grace?"

Zabini's wide grin twists before he strides towards the showers.

Snape stares after the young Chaser, the mentor's responsibility heavier than ever upon his shoulders.

* * *

By noon, his unnatural calm feels like the day's oppressive sky—trying to smother something far below… something alive and immense and elusive as air.

Unease is beginning to filter through the composure, one writhing thread at a time.

Snape scans through his com-messages over lunch, chewing mechanically as he deletes the irrelevant, archives the mundane, scowls at the unsolicited.

_To: .__  
__From: .__  
__Re: Replacement prescription_

_According to our records, your Nox prescription was filled last week at the west medical centre, from Batch N-634-LV._

_Unfortunately, arising quality control issues necessitate the retraction and replacement of this particular batch of Nox. The Ministry of Medicine assures that there is no need for alarm. The only side-effects that may have occurred are slight insomnia._

_Please report to your nearest medical centre for a replacement prescription a.s.a.p._

Nox for continued humanity.

_Healer Summerfield__  
__Communications Officer__  
__Ministry of Medicine_

Snape almost chokes on the welcome realisation that this batch of Nox may have given his darkest memories recent flight into dreams.

The relief of an easy explanation is like a tidal wave, crushing in intensity.

And then the flood recedes, leaving logic-stained doubt. _But… a side-effect like insomnia wouldn't necessarily explain emergent dreams…?_ He frowns.

The nervous threads gather between his shoulder blades, itching.

* * *

The Nox Dispensary Nurse shakes her head emphatically. "Oh, no, sir—it absolutely wouldn't cause dreams, good or bad. It _stopped_ some people from sleeping at all during the night, though—"

"Insomnia. Yes," he grates out.

"We really do apologise for the terrible inconvenience, Chaser, sir."

In grim and contemplative silence, he pockets his new Nox prescription and turns on his heel.

He would still pay Galleons for a straightforward medical explanation of his dreams.

* * *

Snape's thoughts are given another sharp kaleidoscopic turn near the medical centre exit.

A hologram of Lord Voldemort smiles benevolently upon him, wishing him a productive, law-abiding day.

The sign on a door reads:  
_H. Granger__  
__Dentist_

"There is no such thing as a coincidence, ever," Chaser Snape murmurs to the ruler he has never met.

* * *

"Go ahead… she's your prisoner. Not that you got anything out of her on your first go but..." The Ministry of Justice Interrogator shrugs.

Chaser Snape tamps down a snarl. "You have to know and ask the _right_ questions—as you would know all too well, not having extracted any useful information from Granger even _with_ the aid of Veritaserum."

"We're trying again today," the Interrogator admits glumly, "but it's not looking good. There are no drug traces in her blood, so the inhibitor cannot be chemical… but I'd swear she's resisting somehow."

"Memory removal?" Snape suggests, recalling his initial interview with Granger.

The Interrogator pulls a face, looking unconvinced. "Eh. It doesn't feel… right…"

Snape snorts. _A vast understatement, I think._


	7. Chapter 7

"_Cha_ser Snape," Granger choruses, voice thick and sweet like honey. "I _really_ wish I could say it's lovely to see you again, but, you know, I'm not all that fond of brain-washed minions." She snickers in delighted self amusement and drums her palms against the steel table. "So… what can I do you for?"

She looks three a.m. drunk: eyes glassy bright; smile lazy and lopsided; lack of sleep bruising lavender beneath her eyes.

He suppresses a sigh as he sits.

Snape _despises_ interrogating with Veritaserum. The drug is far from coercive or painful, as many imagine it to be. It is more insidiously subtle—winding through the brain, delaminating all inhibitions, removing all fear. And unfiltered truth tumbles faster than thought—terrible secrets are told with earnest glee.

The lack of control it induces is… discomforting.

He taps a pen against his list, decides to start with the known and spiral outward from there. "You worked as a dentist at the west medical centre?"

Granger tries to smirk. "Yessss. I told you that one before, Chaser." She makes a writing motion with her hand and blows a curl of hair out of her eyes. "You really should write things down if your memory is that bad. I used to keep a diary, but when I came here…" She shrugs with uncoordinated inelegance.

"Why did you move to Salazar?"

Granger leans back in her chair and vents a huge sigh—her expression slides to one of supreme boredom.

_Unprecedented,_ he thinks with dull amazement. He's never seen anybody resist answering a direct question under Veritaserum before.

Snape frowns, traces his lips with an index finger as he watches her. The truth drug is obviously working for _some_ of his questions… just not the important ones. Then—she must somehow be walling off access to anything involving her mission here in Salazar.

His eyes narrow. _Sometimes the easiest way through a wall is to slip around it—every answer invariably has more than one question._

"Are you a dentist?"

"Noooooo," she drawls. She gives him a dazzling smile. "But my parents were."

He keeps his voice neutral. "I... see." He presses his pen to his lower lip, thinking rapidly. "What was your area of study, then?"

She begins to hum tunelessly.

Irritation and a nascent headache claw up through his foggy calm. "I saw that you had a number of organic chemistry books on your bookshelf—do you find it an interesting science, Miss Granger?"

"Oh, yes," she agrees. "It's probably a bit beyond your scope, though—don't Chasers live on doctrine and discipline alone?"

His fingers close tightly around his pen, but he controls his rising temper. "Did you tamper with a batch of Nox at the west medical center?"

Granger tilts her head to one side and hmmm's unconcernedly. Her eyes drift like a gentle tide, finally come to focus on his hand. "You Salazar Chasers all have the _ugliest_ pens, by the way." She grimaces. "Plastic. Ugh. Give me a nice, old-fashioned quill any day."

Snape's eyes widen fractionally as alarm bells begin to sound. He licks his lips, aware that phrasing his next question wrong would have him hitting her wall of indifference _and_ alert her that she'd let something vital slide through.

"And… which Salazar Chasers have you met so far?"

Granger counts them off on her fingertips. "You, Chaser Zabini—who really is a sadistic little fuck—Sir Joyless out there… are Interrogators classed as Chasers or not? Anyway. He didn't give me his name, which was rather rude considering all the _invasive_ and personal questions he's been asking." She sticks her tongue out in the direction of the door. "Oh, and Chaser Black." She fans her face and wolf-whistles. "Is it a coincidence that you're all dangerously sexy, or do they teach you that at Chaser School?"

Snape's mouth goes dry. His calm shatters in million pieces and unease washes up his spine. It feels like he's walking on a tightrope, in the dark. "I… see… Where did you meet Chaser Black again?"

The only sign that Granger realises her mistake is a slight widening of her eyes. Dismay leaks through her fluid veneer, reflects in her eyes. "Salazar City," she says with deceptive blitheness.

The truth, if only in the very widest sense. Clever woman. "I shall have to ask him about it," Snape says. He ignores the dull ache of loss that pulses like a fresh bruise.

"You do that," she drawls.

The shape of what Snape does not know looms above him, casting deep shadows. He needs to know; he _has_ to know. _She knows._ He thinks of mirrors and false reflections. She knows too much.

"Was Chaser Black involved with whatever you were plotting—whatever you did at the Nox laboratory?"

Granger gives him a look of pity. "You'll have to ask him about that, too."

Resentment bubbles like acid in his blood.

_Now is the time for a tactical retreat. I need more information before I question her further..._

Snape cannot _bear_ that she shared secrets with his friend of twenty years (his only friend).

Spite curls his upper lip.

_She_ gave life to the dreams that claw at his soul.

He leans forward.

"I would ask him," he says precisely, "if he weren't dead."

Snape has taken many lives—the quick kill always a dispassionate duty. But it is… uncomfortable to watch the horror of his words fill her eyes with tears, tremble in her lips. "_Why?_"

"His treason was discovered."

She laughs bitterly. "Has justice by trial been rendered _optional_, then?"

Snape knows that he should leave. "He—left me little choice."

"You—" She lunges forward, grabs at his tunic. In the dilated moments it takes the Beaters to enter the cell and restrain her, he notices the sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose; the static tingle of magic that radiates from her skin; the steel of her will in her eyes.

All the way back to his office, her accusation echoes in his mind: "Murderer."


	8. Chapter 8

_Behind them, smoke billows into the sky above the raid. The smell of destruction (fire and gunpowder) clings to his tunic, lingers on his skin. The endless grey neglect blurs by as they drive towards Salazar's north gate.___

_"Target practice this evening?" Snape asks. ___

_He's avoiding the silence of home, the bitter quiet where he can hear the whisper: "What did I do wrong? Why did she leave?"___

_Black grimaces. "Can't," he says apologetically. "I've got dinner with Mother tonight."___

_"Ah." Snape fixes his gaze on the road. His own mother is long dead. When the Plague devoured his father (the only good to come of the Plague, he thinks in his darkest moments) his mother followed the bastard willingly—leaving ten-year-old Severus a ward of Salazar. ___

_"I _have_ to visit at least once a week," Regulus says with a sigh, "otherwise she might leave the house to look for me, Salazar forbid."___

_Snape raises an eyebrow.___

_"She'd be arrested for treason if she spouted off in public about being _glad_ of the Plague and how she's happy that all the Muggles are dead, dead, dead." He checks the magazine of his pistol and mimics his mother's shrill tone, "_Toujours pur. Toujours pur_." He snorts. "If she says it tonight, I'm arresting her for treason, I swear, Severus."___

_"What does it mean?"___

_"_Toujours pur_—always pure. The way things used to be... _before_."___

_"Ah," says Severus. "Voldemort has vastly changed our thinking from those old ways. Our blood is all the same, chemically; we all take the same Nox, after all."___

_Black's answer is a twisted smile._

*

The lead-grey afternoon sky squats low on the Salazar skyline; rain needles through the shivering hologram of Lord Voldemort. The ruler of the world is drowned out by the storm, his words lost to the wind.

Chaser Snape strides along the slick concrete walkway towards the Ministry of Justice building—head bowed against the relentless rain—and takes the stairs two at a time. The echo of Granger's words stick to his shadow; the rain streaks hot down his cheeks.

*

Chaser Flint taps the cardboard box. "Contents of his desk are in here; com-files on that disk. File it all with the Evidentiary when you're done. I didn't find anything." His smile is tight, soured with resentment.

Snape nods curtly. As Black's partner (and the expediter of his execution) he was not involved with the inquest into Black's activities. Snape is absolutely sure Black was involved with Granger somehow. And yet—no trace of suspect activity was found. Snape isn't entirely surprised; his partner was a talented Chaser. Besides, only a stupid man would keep evidence of treason at his workplace. He wonders if Flint is being deliberately obstructive.

"What of the evidence from his home?" Snape asks.

"The man lived like a monk—no computer, books or anything remotely personal."

It feels like unease has curdled in his stomach. Briefly, Snape wonders if another Nox would fix it or forever set it to concrete there. He rubs at his headache.

Snape sighs and waves Flint away with a weary, "Thank you, Marcus."

He is exhausted (shattered), hours later, when he confirms Flint's assessment.

*

Snape gazes around his flat when he gets—home.

_The man lived like a monk—no computer, books or anything remotely personal._

"I have a computer," he mutters darkly.

Ever the master of multitasking, Snape opens the post while he eats Ministry of Justice cafeteria dinner straight from the polystyrene container.

_Bill, junk, notice of renewed prescription from Nox…_

"What the hell?" The envelope contains a data disk, labelled: _Bequeathed to Severus Snape._

He struggles to swallow his mouthful of food. Dread lurches sluggishly through his veins, throbbing in time to his pulse, because he can only think of Regulus and his secrets and his blood.

*

The enormous file on the disk is password protected (_Just like Granger's mind_, he thinks savagely). Snape snarls his frustration and resorts to opening the lesser prize:

_Before opening the file, unplug your network cable. You know as well as I that privacy is a misnomer. To gain entry, repeat my mother's litany.__  
__RAB_

Snape mouths, "Repeat my mother's litany?"

Frustration bubbles to the surface, exploding through his fatigue. "Argh!" He paces from wall to wall like a caged panther, muttering, "Litany, litany, what fucking litany?" Mrs Black was a senile old woman, and Snape only met her once (never again). "Dirty blood, my arse—Ahhhh!"

He dives for the computer, hesitates for a moment before pulling the network cable from the wall (he can't explain why), and types, _Toujours pur,_ into the password prompt.

The file blossoms to life before his eyes, page count spooling on and on and on.

*

It is early morning—when the warmth has bled from even the night and silence has its own sound—when Snape returns to the first page of the file.

He rubs a hand over his stubbled cheek, his burning eyes. He isn't sure whether he can move, he's been sitting for so long, so still, so shocked.

He reads the page again:

_Dear Severus,___

_I wish I could have shared this with you when I was alive, but that would have been my death. My mother made me promise never to tell the secret, on pain of death. There are ways to assure that fact, to make promises truly unbreakable.___

_In the beginning, I didn't _want_ to break the promise. But a personal death count that I lost track of a long time ago has made me realise that I would die to tell it now. ___

_I know you grew up in a Salazar children's home, and your early indoctrination and training has made you the perfect Chaser. But I know _you_—you are a good man, Severus, and a good friend—I do not believe that you trust blindly.___

_At least give me the benefit of the doubt and read this file before you decide. ___

_RAB_

Snape stands stiffly, washes his Nox down the drain, to the sea.


	9. Chapter 9

Snape pauses at the foot of the stairs. Salazar's finest stream past him, around him, into the convoluted shadows of the Ministry of Justice. The morning rush buzzes faintly with suppressed magic; the secret heart of humanity crackles like static electricity against his skin.

He breathes in slowly, rubs his fingertips together. The itch, the burn (the sense that his skin is turning itself inside out by degrees) is fading with the stars.

Zabini glides up beside him, his approach heralded by an obnoxious waft of cologne, a jagged prickle of magic. "There you are, sir. I've been waiting for you." When Snape does not say anything, Zabini asks, "What are you doing… sir?"

Snape is not sure entirely what he is doing. He is only sure that he feels a new balance—like his world has shifted to an equilibrium that is infinitely stable and calm.

He gestures to a nearby holo-image of Lord Voldemort. "I am… taking awe of our Lord's great wisdom."

Zabini gives Snape a quick, quizzical glance, then hands him a sheet of paper. "A report just came in: there are magic offenders holed up near old Heathrow. And they're armed with proper weapons."

*

Snape is grateful that Zabini is driving because when they drive through the boundary of Salazar's encompassing Hex, Snape loses sense of up and down and what is real.

A lifetime of perfect control ensures that his only response to the wave of visceral magic is a minute tensing of muscles, a momentary loss of breath.

He turns his head from Zabini, allows himself a brief moment to close his eyes, to feel.

_I never truly understood until this moment, Regulus,_ he thinks, _what evil I have done._

*

When he steps within the Hex bounding the besieged house, Chaser Snape feels bereft.

Empty as the dark of space. And just as cold.

*

A _boom_ vibrates through the air, rattles through the skeleton of the house, and a Beater stumbles down the passage, mechanical joints whining protest.

Snape and Zabini stand pressed against a wall around the corner, out of direct line of fire.

Dust and plaster rains from the ceiling. Gunfire punctuates the gloom. Fear pulses like a heartbeat through the house.

"Grenade," Snape observes.

Zabini swears viciously. "We need to attack them from more than one direction; I'm going in through the ceiling, Snape—cover me!"

As Zabini slides the ceiling panel aside, a man bolts around the corner—feral with panic and brandishing a rifle like a wand—and ricochets off Zabini. He slams hard into Snape, jerks as Zabini's bullet bites into his back.

The rifle thuds to the floor.

Snape grips the man's arms reflexively, and then he _feels_ how the flicker of magic bleeds from the man's body, watches as the light fades from his eyes.

Zabini flashes an excited smile. "Teamwork, Chaser Snape!" He pulls himself into the ceiling, slithering like a snake until his feet disappear.

Snape releases the body; it falls into the spreading pool of blood.

His hands shake (he cannot make them stop).

*

The magical contraband is easy to find—the gunfire has torn the house apart, left all secret places exposed to view.

Snape crosses his arms—tucks his fingertips into his armpits so that he cannot touch—and walks around the room, gazing at objects he was never taught to use; books he was forbidden to read; knowledge he was blind to. Splintered glass crunches underfoot, the magical objects broken and surely as useless as the dead wizards that protected them.

He gazes down at a spill of wands. He remembers how he once grabbed a wand from a wizard and snapped it across his knee, sneering at the man's stricken expression (like an integral part of him had died).

Snape hesitates, bends to pick up the wands. He isn't surprised that they carry a faint magical whisper, as if they were alive. He's not sure why—because it's a very stupid and dangerous thing to do—he slips the wands into his tunic pocket.

"What are you doing?" asks Zabini from the doorway.

Snape tenses, cursing Zabini's gift of silent movement. He makes himself turn, shrug carelessly. "It is generally safer to take wands personally to the Hall of Evidence and log them directly with the Head Keeper. You can never be sure what the Beaters will miss or be bribed for by the insurgents... and wands are their primary weapons, yes?"

Zabini tilts his head. "That's a bit… paranoid."

Snape manages a sardonic smirk. "You can but aspire to reach such heights one day, Chaser."

*

Snape stares black hate at the pile of Execution Orders waiting for his signature. He remembers that Regulus left this part of the job to him in recent months and snorts. Hindsight, he realises, is making an absolute fool of him.

He decided last night that he would continue his routine, his job, his life, until he knew what he wanted to do (where to start).

_I signed them easily enough before._ Bitterness taints his mouth; he swallows hard. _When I was certain that I was upholding the perfection of Voldemort's logic, yes._

He reaches for his pen and clenches his jaw. _Is all death so easily justified, then?_ he thinks as he signs his name, again and again, mostly to distract himself with the fog of philosophy than to search for an answer he knows he will never find.

*

Zabini glides past and deposits another Execution Order on the dwindling pile. "Just came in from Interrogation," he drawls. "They're done with that Granger woman—couldn't get her to answer anything about Black on any of their bouquet of drugs." He sniffs and murmurs something about blood under his breath.

Snape stares at the Execution Order for several moments and then blinks. "Good."

Once Zabini has left, Chaser Snape slides the piece of paper into his top drawer.

He covers his mouth with a hand; sighs into his palm.


End file.
